


At Stake

by Yessica



Series: Febuwhump 2021 [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Aziraphale gets mistaken for a vampire in this, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, because tell me he wouldn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29206923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yessica/pseuds/Yessica
Summary: Aziraphale has an encounter with some vampire hunters in the 18th century. (Febuwhump day 4 - Impaling)
Series: Febuwhump 2021 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138808
Kudos: 20





	At Stake

Many times since arriving in this cold and dark country had Aziraphale thought he would have been better off staying in London.

Not because of the weather, which was dreadfully dour and worse than what he was used to, for so far as that was still possible. Not for the people, who were broody and suspicious of strangers – certainly strangers who were quirky and fair with a bounciness to their step and panache to their speech. Not even the terrible meals were what made Aziraphale regret sailing over here.

Oh no, it was his own curiosity he lamented.

Curiosity wasn't a virtue to humans, and for angels even less so. But Aziraphale was weak and wont to give in to his own whims and as he was pushed against the moist forest ground scattered with dead leaves by two men, he realized he couldn't name the little village he had been staying in, or which country this was.

They did tell him curiosity killed the cat.

The boy was barely a few years into puberty, dark hair and big green eyes that only grew wider in fear when his father pressed the wooden stake and the hammer into his hands. Hawthorne carved and sculpted and said to be perfect to extirpate the creatures of myth that were currently rumored to roam these parts. The same myths Aziraphale had traveled so far to learn more about, to record for the sake of human peculiarities.

The father spoke in rushed tones, a language Aziraphale knew as he did all others, but didn't hear often in the Queen's country. His speech was too disjointed to make out much anyway, though the underlying purpose was clear. Somehow they had become convinced that those terrible soulless creatures of the night were real.

And that Aziraphale was one of them.

With the intent of keeping their families safe and keeping themselves safe, they had decided to take the only logical course of action and kill him. Two men kept a firm grip on Aziraphale's arms, calloused hands digging into the wool of his coat and using force to push him to his knees. The third man had brought his young son, Aziraphale could not decipher why. but he could decipher perfectly what his intention was as he handed the stake over to the boy, pointing a finger and talking another few low words.

A scared glance was sent his way before the boy was shaking his head, fingers curled around the wood and he was shivering either from fear or cold as he tried to force the improvised tools back into his father's hands. For all his efforts, they were only put back into his own. Another few words and then the father shoved his son forward with a firm push to the small of his back.

The dim dusk light reflected off the tears threatening to spill from the boy's eyes. Aziraphale wanted to say something – wanted to tell the poor lad that this was all a big mistake and he shouldn't have to do this – but the words had dried on his tongue like holy water in the pits of hell. Motionless, he watched the child raise the stake with one hand, the hammer with the other, pressing it up to their own shoulders in anticipation.

Then it descended towards Aziraphale's chest.

Pain ripped through his being as the stake pierced his skin, burrowing into the flesh beneath. Aziraphale hadn't been frightened – such a silly human emotion for one who couldn't die. And while not the most gracious way to go, being staked at least was supposed to be quick and instant when done right.

Which was how he realized seconds later, it had not been done right.

The ripples of agony were radiating too low, below his ribcage and when he opened his eyes he could see blood pool out and stain his waistcoat, making dark patches against the ground. The stake had buried deep, but too low. Much too low to reach his heart.

The boy realized his mistake at the same time, letting out a high-pitched and terrified squeak. One of the men holding Aziraphale's arms let go in surprise, but he didn't manage much more than to slump forward, renewing the pain from his wound to new heights. Blinking out of his stupor, the father started loudly cursing at his son for failing what was probably perceived as a simple task, a rite of approaching adulthood for people of their craft. He snatched the hammer out of the boy's hands and then went to make a grab for the stake still protruding from Aziraphale's chest.

A smothered gasp escaped him, the wood actually being a lot more painful when exiting than when it went in. The foul taste of iron spread in Aziraphale's throat, blood coming up with unsubdued coughs to stain his lips.

On command, the other man let go too and then Aziraphale was tumbling backward, the back of his head hitting the ground with a dull thud, getting leaves tangled in his curls. He could barely see the sky through the trees and his vision was already growing hazy.

Truly, God must have been in the foulest of moods when she came up with the blessing of a drawn-out death.

The father towered over him in blurry shapes, the stake the only remaining solid objects in Aziraphale's vision and he had given up praying a long time ago – hadn't seen the use of it when he had a direct line to heaven itself – but at that moment he could only hope it would be swift and painless.

But what he was waiting for never came.

Instead, it was Crowley's hands that touched his cheeks, traveled coldly down the length of his neck and downward more to pull his coat to the side. Aziraphale tried to protest, a vague murmur with no strength behind it that was cut off by a gasp when he felt his own corporal tissue sewing itself together. The pain was indescribable and far worse than the stake had been.

Then Crowley was trying to hoist him up by his armpits to get him into a seated position. Hurt echoed through him, but not as unbearable as before and Aziraphale managed to comply, leaning against the other for support. His head fell onto Crowley's shoulder.

"You shouldn't waste a miracle on me, dear fellow." Even speaking was hard with traces of blood clogging up his throat. The wound had healed enough to not be fatal anymore, but not much more than that.

"Do piss off," was Crowley's response, ever eloquent. His head whipped from side to side as if he was looking for something but he seemed to think better of it. "C'mon then."

Aziraphale shook his head, indicating he was in no position to go gallivanting off just yet. He feared that using his legs now would only cause them to collapse underneath him. "Where are the humans, the boy-"

"I didn't kill them if that's what you're asking," Crowley said, the faint traces of displeasure on his face. He was too humanely pale with worry.

Forcing a smile that might resemble more of a grimace in the current circumstances, Aziraphale answered. "I wasn't."

Crowley looked at him, the fiery color of his eyes over the spectacles and Aziraphale always thought he looked a bit silly like that. But he never mentioned it. Knowing when to keep your tongue was not a human virtue either, but it certainly was a divine one.

"How did you find me?" he asked when he felt recovered enough to get up. Crowley supported him in the endeavor, throwing one of Aziraphale's arms over his shoulder and keeping his own curled tight around his waist.

Crowley carefully started moving, throwing continued glances at his face to make sure he wasn't in any undue pain. "You pinned a note on the door of the bookshop, angel. Said you were going to hunt vampires?"

"It was in jest."

"You don't say." Crowley kicked at the stake on the ground, stained red with Aziraphale's blood. Dropped in the men's haste to get away from a real creature of the night making its appearance. "Looks like they found you first. You really are stellar at getting into trouble, you know. Good thing I'm always there to save you."

Aziraphale tried to laugh, but his chest hurt too much to allow it. "I do hope that was also in jest."

Crowley didn't reply. And that in itself might have been answer enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Febuwhump. Come throw me some requests on [Tumblr](http://sharada-n.tumblr.com/)


End file.
